Digital Drug
by Windsett
Summary: Felix has slowly realised that he doesn't always enjoy his job and the pie and medals that come with it. Somehow his thoughts are getting darker and his plans for the future are becoming corrupted. He's not sure what's happening to him, but he's also not sure he wants it to stop.
1. Auto-Enrolment

**Digital Drug**

**1.  
**

Taken for granted, that's what it is.

They just take it for granted that you'll sort it and that you'll mend it; that you'll make everything better, back to normal, and will do it with a cool smile and a posture that reassures them its been nothing, its been no sweat at all.

Nope, it's nothing to worry about guys and gals, just the regular rhythm of life pulsing along as it should, so back to your apartments now and close those gleaming bright windows carefully so the pie won't get cold!

A second taken too long for your smile to form or a second shaved off how long your shoulders are locked tightly upright are both to be avoided, for there'll be at least one of them (one of the whole lot of them that always have their eyes on you) who notices. One of them who'll give you a side-eyed look, an uneven mixture of concern and fear that contracts brightly and briefly in their pupil before it's calmly glossed over with a thick reassurance that nothing can really be wrong because nothing's even really _been_ wrong.

It's bad enough when no-one notices, but what's even worse – what causes that small skeleton finger to trace a delicate line of nausea along the bottom of your stomach – is when one of them notices and looks almost glad.

Almost _excited_.

It's done and dusted in a second, in a heartbeat, but you know it's happened; a dilated pupil that sees the real you as opposed to just registering your presence; a sharp intake of breath aborted halfway through; a dance of facial muscles to constrict and compose the correct expression.

They don't really want you to fail, you scold yourself; they don't really want their homes to be permanently destroyed and their hero to suffer you think in reassurance as your heart judders and your skin prickles.

They only get a rare flash of excitement because they're safe in the knowledge that you won't _really_ fail. It's alright to be scared and face the possibility of pain and ruin and enjoy the delicious spike of wrongness that follows, but only if you're absolutely certain that there's a safety bar in place and that you won't _really_ be left homeless and hungry and obsolete.

And why should they worry? It's been almost thirty years and nothing's ever gone wrong for them. Yes OK maybe every third brick turned purple a decade ago and there was that incident with the pigeons on the roof, but in the grand scheme of things – in the grand scheme of the entire Arcade – that's nothing.

Nothing.

Not that they'd ever see it that way. They've lived a good, safe, nice life, and because they've never caused any trouble why should they experience any hardships? They follow their programmes unquestioningly and so why should bad things ever happen to them?

Even if the entire building fell on their heads (fell, in slow motion, brick by brick and piece of glass by piece of jagged glass) they'd only flash a few times before springing back to life as the infinite life cheat code booted up.

Instant regeneration. No problem.

It wasn't always like this. His fatherused to tell him, used to warn him with a glimmer of something behind his glasses that, back in the early days, it had hurt.

It had hurt a lot.

The gamer would lose and you'd die, but your pixels would be prevented from easily disintegrating into nothing; they'd be sucked back from the brink and brutally meshed back together into the rows and columns that were you. A fierce green line of code would push them all back into place and then hold them, straining, until a thin line of dark blue code burned them back into place and then one, two, three and sometimes four flashes of colour and pain so intense you couldn't scream even if you could as the bits and bytes swirled, aligned and reformed and before you knew it you were back to where you'd just come from.

No, it wasn't as easy as it is now to regenerate. And that was all thanks to Father.

Father and his magic hammer.

His Father had also been a Handyman, but only a part-time one in a game set in a hotel where you played cards. And since they weren't the sort of card games that ended in drunken disagreements, there wasn't much call for someone to repair lots of damage every day.

One day, bored and restless, he'd explored the perimeter of the game and come across a loose circuit; a glitch of every colour. It had flashed and pixelated as he smiled and let his yellow hammer fall and bury itself in the mess of sparks. They had eaten into the hammer and wrapped themselves around his arm before he could even think to open his mouth and shout but that had been enough.

A mutation in that code had bled into his hammer and like all good viruses it had disguised itself and spread. But not spread too far; just into his Father and his friend who had been the one to pull him away and take him, yelling, into the medic bay.

The doctor that examined him had pronounced him in excellent health, fit as a fiddle, and hadn't he done a great job with Miss Hannah's table leg before his Father had screamed, turned translucent and died.

When he'd been brought back to immediate life he knew it had been different and, since he was a clever man wasted in his job, he immediately suspected the glitch code and his solid hammer.

It hadn't taken long for him to demonstrate his gift – his gift from the game for years of long service, no mention at all of glitches and code and reckless hammering of course – and to share it with others. One tap (one hit one smash one long slow carved incision that caused even him to close his eyes) and you'd never again regenerate in pain. It was a miracle!

His Father had got a (within programme restricted of course) promotion, a rise and the promise of the penthouse suite in the new apartment block when the planning permission finally went through.

But of course the obvious flaw hadn't been so obvious until later. Once everyone had been fixed, what then? What would the genius saviour do next?

Well he'd try to fix them all permanently of course, that's what.

His friend had whispered poisoned words of encouragement in his ears and he'd almost-

'Quarter alert!'

A jump, a start, that easy smile back on your face and the yellow hammer twitching with life in your hand as you drag your thoughts, gritted and fragmented, back to the present.

A smile, a last minute adjustment to a hat and several contented grins and fake panicked calls of 'Fix it Felix!' fill your world as the cycle begins again.

Taken for granted; that's what it was and that's what it is.

Stop windows from being broken in the first place?

No, can't do that. (You'd be out of a job)

Stop them looking at you but not really seeing you?

Nope, can't do that either. (Like his Father he'd tried and failed once before and, like his Father, he'd rather not think about what happened afterwards)

Stop work and go live in another game?

Nope, still can't fix the pesky problem of getting killed permanently if something fatal happens to you in it.

Stop a regeneration from ever occurring?

No, can't…

Well.

No, no you can't.

…

Not yet you can't.


	2. Rhythm and Lights

**2. Rhythm and Lights**

Thirty years next week and he'd be having a party. Lots of fun with cake and balloons and making the same moves on the strobing penthouse dancefloor.

Not that he'd mind terribly about going to the party – kinda hard to skip anyhow – since he liked cake and balloons and fireworks.

Oh yes he liked those fireworks.

They were a difficult piece of programming only undertaken on a special occasion, given the brutal necessity of corrupting the illumination circuits in just the right way and for the strictest length of time. Don't want the whole town to be plunged into scaly blackness forever after all!

Mayor Gene would gather everyone together in the conference room (lights appropriately dimmed and windows respectfully shuttered) to explain why and how their game's circuits would be tampered with. But not permanently of course! And certainly not forever! Good gracious no, he'd never risk that; would never risk distorting the game forever for that would be unthinkable and what was he, nothing more than a brainless Wreck-It after all?

They'd laugh nervously and wring their hands and continue the act of appearing to be in a dilemma about interfering with the root of their existence, all the while trying not to look at him or the clock or the snacks on the table behind them.

Gene would stand a bit straighter and with a brave smile declare that, fear not Nicelanders, we _can _celebrate our anniversary/one thousandth game/miraculous survival of the Arcade getting shut down for three days in a row because we have Felix! Yes, Felix can fix it!

They'd cheer politely and pretend to look relieved, as he would mock salute and hold his hammer out high and joke that perhaps it wouldn't work this time and they'd better not refuse him cream on his pie if that happened!

Some of them would laugh for real at that, and he'd grin for real at that.

* * *

The first time he'd heard this speech it had sent a ripple up his spine and down his arms and, in between wondering how he'd gotten so lucky to have such advanced code, he'd feel a surge of pride and protection towards everyone and everything.

He'd heard it again last night, and when the time had come to lift his hammer up he'd taken his time. He'd taken his time to rub a gloved thumb over its head and look at it as if deciding what it was really made of.

He'd delivered the line about his hammer not being able to fix the mutilated circuits in a monotone with a solemn face, and had felt a different kind of ripple through his muscles when not one of them failed to chuckle politely and clap their hands and turn their attention to the post-meeting delicacies.

The illumination circuits were hidden behind a fake safe behind a fake painting in the apartment block's basement. With great ceremony Gene would expose them and mutter what seemed like an apology and prayer and self-righteous justification into the harshly lit space around them as the others, eyes jaded and restless or bright and eager, watched him twist and contort them to demand they spew out pixelated images into the sky at a precise time and in a precise order.

They'd watch him a bit more keenly as he's jump back quicker than he would have liked as the abused wires hissed and spat at him; sparks of light scratching whatever they could as a slow heat and low thrumming began to seep out of the hole in the wall.

Then they would turn their eyes and heads towards him; they'd turn out of habit and out of impatience, as if mildly rebuking him for having not already fixed it and ended this trip down into the cellar's bowels.

They'd always had this demeanour but he hadn't always acted so reluctantly; he would have sprung to attention immediately, carefully approaching the metal breach clad in protective goggles and fire retardant suit just in case. It hadn't hurt to be prepared after all; not that any one of them ever asked him just where exactly he'd gotten a full length deep red work suit from – probably just assumed he'd inherited it from his Father as well. Probably just taken it for granted that they were right without going through the tiresome bother of actually checking.

And they were taking it for granted right now that he would step up to the wall, tap the flaming circuits and surrounding wall a few times, and then a few times again just to be sure, before carefully closing the now flat and dull grey safe door back into place, spinning the dial as if anyone would ever think of trying to crack it, lifting the picture back up over it all before turning round to face calls of thanks and excitement and promises of pie.

But this time he didn't execute a restrained leap forward. Didn't pull his goggles down over his eyes and didn't even lift his hammer up into the air.

Instead he just stood there, watching the sparks cry and the sizzling wires writhe.

Mary laughed nervously (how can you laugh _nervously _after all? If you're going to laugh you should do it properly for goodness' sake) and shot a glance at Gene who was already putting on his coat to leave.

But by now the others were beginning to notice (ah about time) that he hadn't already fixed it and called out for dessert. Their polite suggestions to him turned aggressive so quickly that he felt a tingle – one of the pleasant ones from years ago – bite at his arm. He removed his goggles completely and shivered.

The wires were beginning to blacken and fray, with heavy grey smoke starting to billow around the bubbling safe door. A few of them were beginning to truly worry now; really starting to panic as a shard of hot metal cracked and escaped and shot itself at their feet; definitely about to experience some genuine terror as a tight hissing noise erupted from a carved circuit board glowing green.

He stepped back and wasn't expecting Gene to grab his shoulders, no not at all, and certainly wasn't prepared for Deanna to shout in his ear and threaten him! Actually _threaten_ him with physical harm! Oh Lordy!

Blood pulsing thicker and stronger than it had in an age he felt his lip begin to curl upwards, took another step back and let his hammer fall to the floor, its impact silently overwritten by the safe imploding in a vortex of light and sound.


	3. Fracture

**3. Fracture**

Felix had been taken to the doctor that operated out of the backroom of Tappers, Dr. Herb Miller, before he'd been able to offer up any kind of explanation for what he'd done in the basement.

For what he _hadn't_ done more like.

Miller was just a background character who'd only appear, briefly, when a customer got so drunk they weren't able to sit upright any longer and Tapper himself was already busy. Random bodies slumped about the place was bad for business after all, so Miller had been hired. Where he'd been hired from – what he'd been created _for_ – was a frequent topic of conversation when there was no other Arcade gossip to chew over.

At the sound of a buzzer Miller would drag the unfortunate customer out of a side door to his clinic (also known as the converted cleaning supply room) to pretend to treat them with his advanced medical skills while they had a sleep and sobered up. So when Miller was genuinely needed he acted as if the most amazingly important problem ever created had landed on his doorstep, and that he alone could solve it and bring peace and order to the universe once again.

Everyone in the Arcade tolerated this behaviour since he was their only medic after all, and some even enjoyed the attention and heartfelt belief that their problem was so significant. Some actually looked forward to getting injured, and it never failed to amuse him that most of this class had been forced to learn to live with the unfortunate fact that their core programming prevented them from ever getting seriously hurt, even within their own game.

He could understand this desire to want what you weren't supposed to have, and he could certainly sympathise with the low simmering irritation that had crept up on them; the worm that had politely demanded to be acknowledged, blankly ignored all attempts to overlook it and then moved in permanently, burrowing just under the skin to nibble relentlessly at the surface.

His own core programming had kicked in at exactly the same time as the remote surge protector had. Just before the safe had approached critical overload the protector had fired up and encased that section of the wall in a protective blue lattice, and he had felt sick to his stomach. He'd tried to bend down to snatch up his hammer and hurtle himself at the smoking debris of the safe, but he couldn't. He just stood there, frozen, watching the yellow flames and ice blue web fight over the safe with eyes widened from horror and a mouth open with disbelief.

When it was over – when the flames had been extinguished and the protective web had contracted back into the grid – everyone apart from Deanna immediately declared that he was ill. Announced, in scared and sympathetic and knowledgeable tones, that something had happened to Felix to make him do that. Or make him not do that. But whatever it was that did or didn't make him do those things just now is obviously a glitch, or an error, or a virus and oh my any one of them could be fatal they're so bad! Better get him to Dr. Miller right now!

Everyone, apart from Deanna, patted him (cautiously) on the shoulder and promised him things would be fine and that he'd be back to normal in no time and, so, Felix, better come with us to the train and get you looked over by Dr. Miller quickly now because you don't know how many patients he'll have at this time of day.

Everyone, apart from Deanna, tried and failed to suppress a mild excitement as he was led out of the basement.

Everyone, apart from Deanna, managed to soothe his red raw conscious just a little bit with their words and actions and bustling familiar presence.

Everyone, apart from Deanna, made him want to crack open the safe and tear its innards out again.

Q*Bert was the only other patient in the doctors when he arrived. The harmless orange oddity had been trying to practice English, and had asked M. Bison something that had been answered with a blackened eye, a busted nose and multiple cuts and bruises.

Most of the older Arcade characters had learnt Qubenese. Well that wasn't strictly true now; most of the older _hero _Arcade characters had been _strongly encouraged _to undertaken lessons to learn this unique language. The original Surge Protector had hosted them, with a great deal of emphasis on diversity and equality and something else –ity that he used to believe in whole-heartedly but now couldn't be bothered to try and remember.

With not as much fussing as he would have liked, he'd been lowered down gently onto the sofa to wait his turn. Mary had handed back his hammer and offered to stay with him, but after only two polite declines had scuttled off quicker than she had entered. He sat straight and still, and wondered why he didn't feel more concern about the pixelated blood threatening to leak out of Q*Bert's side.

Q*Bert saw him and immediately launched into a stream of Qubenese explaining and justifying and placating his actions, and all Felix could think of was how annoying it was that no-one else was around to absorb this. Of the older characters still around no-one else had bothered to keep up with their Qubenese language skills, and the knowledge that only he could translate made him itch.

Q*Bert continued to pour out his pain and Felix shifted uncomfortably. This train of thought wasn't fair, he knew that, but he couldn't end it.

Perhaps didn't want to end it.

He jumped to his feet and began to pace. The surge of his core programming fighting against this…well, this new algorithm that had infected him somehow, must be disrupting his code. Maybe if he just took it easy for the next day or so he'd calm down. Maybe if he saw the doctor and told the truth he'd feel better. Maybe if he reversed his hammer and sunk it into Q*Bert's blabbering mouth he'd-

He closed his eyes and ground his teeth and stopped pacing.

No good, he had to get out of here. It was all too raw and tight and the startling speed of events had thrown him; had opened up a crack in his foundations too smoothly and too easily for him to feel comfortable decrying it with any conviction.

He turned and strode towards the door but stopped. Something he'd just thought of punctured him again; it slipped under his skin and sunk into his brain as if returning home. A brittle and tarnished chain of a plan flowed easily in its wake, and the nausea in his stomach clashed against the thumping of his heart.

_Disrupting his code. _

Perhaps if he could get to his source code he could stop this; could put an end to this sudden expanse of velvet blackness that both repelled and fascinated him. If he could at least examine his source code he could know for sure, and possibly find out what was wrong.

He could make things back to normal again.

He could fix it.

He looked down at Q*Bert, at the character that had been around longer than he had, and felt a blanket of needles envelop him smoothly. His hands reached out seemingly of their own accord, and he knew this was wrong but if it was for a greater good then it must be right.

Besides, he reasoned with himself as Q*Bert was pinched and lifted and began to drip thickly, he deserved this; deserved to know why and certainly deserved to have something for himself for a change.

Squealing with fright and disbelief, Q*Bert looked but didn't see. Felt but couldn't process. And heard but couldn't understand Felix's politely asked question as his small heart pumped and faltered.

'Where is my game's code room hidden?'


End file.
